


Like Father Like Clone

by a_taller_tale



Series: Five Reds and a Baby [8]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-08 14:39:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_taller_tale/pseuds/a_taller_tale
Summary: Grif and Little D look most alike when the baby is laid out on Grif’s stomach on his own belly, arms and legs out like a starfish, hair scrunched and sticking up in all directions, snoozing with his mouth open.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PirateSimmons (FreysGalli)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreysGalli/gifts).



“Who’s the smartest?” Simmons asked, putting down the flashcards for a second. 

Little D yelled nonsense back in agreement. 

“Yes, you are. You’re gonna kick all the other babies’ asses at your first standardized test.” Dexter’s mouth popped open, and Simmons deposited the expected cheerio as a reward, giving his head an affectionate pat. 

“Who’s the handsomest boy?” 

“Un!” Little D yelled. 

“Yup, that’s you.” He gave him another cheerio, even though that question was a gimme. 

“Huh,” Grif said from behind him. Simmons jumped, and felt his face get hot even though that was dumb. He’d seen Grif saying embarrassingly mushy things to Dexter too. It was totally allowed. 

“If he was cloned and we share the same DNA...” Grif asked slowly, in that innocent tone that meant he was going to say something to make Simmons short-circuit. “...Aren’t you saying I’m _also_ the handsomest boy?” 

Yup. Bad. No. 

“What?” Simmons winced at the yelp in his voice, but he recovered. “No. That’s not—It doesn’t work like that.” 

“So, you’re saying he’s _not_ the handsomest boy? We’re offended.” Grif scooped Dexter up and now there were two sets of deep brown eyes staring at him. 

“Grif! Give him back! We were doing flashcards!” 

Grif frowned, Dexter looked at him and then copied, sticking his lower lip out. This was unfair. Psychological warfare. “Say it, Simmons.” 

There were very few escape routes here. 

“Wait. Do you… want me to say it? Why?” 

“What? No,” Grif said abruptly, teasing dropped as quickly as he dropped the baby back on the playmat. Little D cocked his head to the side to look up at Grif, sticking a fist in his mouth to drool on. “I was just letting you know that was what you were saying. I’m gonna get food.” 

At first, aside from looking alike, Simmons didn’t notice many similarities between Grif and Little D. They looked most alike when baby Dexter was laid out on Grif’s stomach on his own belly, arms and legs out like a starfish, hair scrunched and sticking up in all directions, snoozing with his mouth open. 

They were pretty different personality-wise though. Dexter Grif, the newly cloned baby version, was happy all the time. More like Sister’s temperament than Grif’s, if Simmons guessed. Little D was active and curious. He giggled a lot and shrieked for their attention, and was happy to repeat all the tricks they taught him for Sarge—as long as they popped a cheerio in his mouth afterwards as a treat. 

Simmons hadn't met a lot of babies before he joined the military, but Dexter studied the adults around him constantly--more than he'd think a baby would--and was extremely sensitive to mood changes. 

Sarge hadn’t stopped calling the baby his second in command, but Simmons had been in that position. It didn’t mean Sarge was going to change the way he did things, which meant there were going to be weapons, live rounds, and traps Sarge was tinkering with left haphazardly everywhere. Simmons was already stressing about how he was going to baby-proof the base. 

The baby wasn’t quite crawling, but he scooted across the floor like the wind the second someone blinked, or got distracted by an “attack” from the Blues. There was a big black bruise on his forehead from scooting into the crates they used as a coffee table. Simmons wanted to cry every time he saw it. 

Not to mention the stuff Dexter was getting into that Simmons hadn’t even considered he could try to kill himself with. The other day he’d tried to swallow one of Donut’s makeup sponges. It shouldn't have even fit in his mouth! And Little D put _everything_ in his mouth. The books said it was a baby stage of exploring the world around him. _That_ could be considered Grif-like. 

They had finally figured out how to assemble the baby pen, but it wasn't the respite they were hoping for. Little D used it to pull himself up, hastening their quick descent into dealing with a baby that could _walk into danger on its own_ , and he liked to put his fingers through the holes to shake the pen and scream happily until someone took him back out. The Reds all exchanged glances. It was affectionately referred to as "The T-Rex Exhibit" from then on. 

“Maybe it’s not too late to return him?” Grif joked. No one appreciated it. 

Simmons was going to have to work really hard to make sure Dexter didn’t develop Grif’s sarcasm, and lack of work ethic, but if he got maybe 10% of Grif’s laid back nature, Simmons might feel less exhausted all the time. 

He felt indescribably guilty for the thought when Little D slept in the next day and woke up sluggish and flushed, with glassy eyes and scarlet cheeks. Fever. 

* * *

The baby wanted to be held every moment, sucking on his fingers and curling up, pressing his face into Grif’s shoulder. Reaching for Simmons moments later, little arms hugging him tightly. 

They called Dr Grey, who griped about not having pediatric training and no longer being the only doctor they knew, but gave them instructions to bring him in if the fever got higher. Otherwise, it just sounded like a cold they’d need to wait out. 

It was miserable. None of them got much sleep. Donut delivered food once, and Sarge, and even Lopez checked in on them. They had the TV on for noise, but didn’t really watch it. 

Grif did a lot of nervous pacing. He was worse at keeping his anxiety under control than Simmons when there was something wrong with his son. 

The last night, Little D’s fever broke and he fell into a deep sleep. He was much better the next day, and they got some much needed rest too. Simmons was so busy catching up on chores and making sure the baby was recovering well, that he didn't realize Grif had disappeared until he'd been gone for hours. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Grif and Simmons and Little D, the clone of Grif that Sarge bought by accident for 6000 installments of $39.95.](https://a-taller-tale.tumblr.com/post/165864023807/a-taller-tale-grif-and-simmons-and-little-d-the)
> 
> [Double Grifs pouting at Simmons](https://a-taller-tale.tumblr.com/post/163620120202/a-taller-tale-double-grifs-pouting-at-simmons-he)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can’t you read? This is a quarantine. Go away.”

Simmons woke up with little hands pulling his hair. The baby was sitting up next to him, trying in vain to yank the hair up into his mouth. Simmons gently extricated his hands. “You feeling better, Dexter?”

Little D burbled, his nose was still running, but his eyes had their usual spark back and he was ready to play. Simmons was exhausted, but that last cat-nap had perked him up a little. Enough to notice Grif still wasn’t back from wherever he’d disappeared to. 

Simmons yawned and scratched the back of his neck. “I gotta find Grif. You wanna do paperwork for Sarge for a while?” 

Dexter made a raspberry noise, something Grif or Donut had taught him last week and was now one of his favorite responses to questions. 

“’Bout time!” Sarge said when Simmons showed up, holding out his arms for the baby. “The work’s been piling up around here! He needs to step up before he becomes a useless lay about just like his old man.” 

Dexter gave Sarge a suction cup kiss on his chin. When Sarge caught Simmons smiling at the sappy look on his commanding officer’s face, he spluttered and slammed the door. 

Now to find Grif, and figure out why he left in the first place. He might have been a lazy pain in the ass, but he never left the baby—or tangentially Simmons—for that long these days. 

Simmons discreetly checked the tracking device, but Grif’s armor was gathering dust in their room, so it wasn’t useful other than leading him to believe Grif hadn’t left the base. 

Simmons checked the kitchen, the living room, the garage, the new holo room in the basement, the roof… He didn’t think to check the larger storage closet where he kept the cleaning supplies until something caught his eye. A scuffed up biohazard sticker haphazardly and crookedly stuck to the door. That was new. 

“Grif?” Simmons called out. 

“Not here,” said Grif from behind the door. 

Simmons jiggled the handle. It was unlocked, but something was up against the door. “Grif, what the hell?” 

“Can’t you read? This is a quarantine. Go away.” 

“There’s nothing to read. And the sign you put up is for hazardous waste. Let me in.” He was starting to get a little worried. What the hell was Grif doing? 

With a shove of his bionic shoulder against the door, it opened, heralded by the crash of whatever Grif had propped against the door. Great, like there wasn’t enough to clean up around here. 

His complaints caught in his throat when he saw Grif, wrapped up in a blanket nest with a few empty snack wrappers next to him. 

His cheeks were flushed, eyes glassy, and a sulky frown on his face. Fever. “You shouldn’t be here. I can take care of myself.” 

Simmons ignored his defensive body language and knelt down, brushing Grif’s damp hair off his forehead with his human hand. Grif sighed, leaning forward like it was soothing. His head was so hot, they’d be able to fry eggs for the whole team on it. 

Simmons brought up his other hand to wave his pointer finger over his forehead. “102.2,” He sighed. “Looks like you’re sick.” 

“No shit, Simmons,” Grif said. “How’s the kid?” He looked completely miserable and so like Dexter that Simmons wanted to pull him in and hold him and comfort him. Which— No. Weird thought. 

“Sarge has him.” That didn’t change Grif’s concerned look, which—fair. Wow, Grif didn't have a poker face right now. Not that Simmons would take advantage… Oh, who was he kidding? Of course he would. “Dexter’s still got a runny nose, but his temp’s been gone 24 hours. Sarge said he’d comm.” 

“Feel like m’dying. You better leave before you get sick. D needs someone to take care of him.” 

“You’re being over-dramatic. You’re not _dying_ , you just have a cold.” Simmons examined him again, considering. “You’re not turning into a zombie, are you? We made a deal. You have to tell me, so Dexter and I can get away and start a new life away from the hoards.” 

“—You wouldn’t put me out of my misery first? I don’t wanna be one of the undead.” 

“Don’t be dumb, you know Sarge has dibs on that.” 

Grif cracked a smile and then winced and leaned back against the wall. “Nah, not turning. Definitely got this from the little snot factory.” 

“Come on, get off the floor. You need to be in bed with a fever like this.” 

“Just leave me to my horrible fate, Simmons. I could bite.” It was probably meant to be teasing, but it just sounded pathetic. 

“Doesn’t matter, I’m obviously immune since I’m a cyborg. The zombie virus isn’t compatible.” Simmons gestured impatiently when Grif still didn’t move from his nest. “Besides, if I don’t bug you to drink water, you’ll just drink soda and then you really will die, and I don’t want to be a single parent.” 

Grif’s eyes widened. Simmons bit his lip. Too much? They’d signed adoption papers. Simmons was officially one of Dexter’s guardians. He was his dad. 

Grif’s surprise relaxed into a smile before Simmons could spiral any further. It was disarming, and then alarming. 

“I could get him sick again,” Grif murmured, but Simmons could tell he’d won. 

“Unlikely, since you _got it_ from him, but we’ll wash everything.” Had Grif really thought he was going to spend his cold locked in a storage closet? Idiot. 

Grif slumped heavily against Simmons as he stood, practically falling into his arms. Simmons adjusted so he could help with his weight while Grif recovered. 

“Whoa,” Grif mumbled, cheeks flushed, dilated eyes dazedly looking up into Simmons’. 

“Dizzy?” Simmons choked. 

“Yeah, uh, stood up too fast.” 

“Well, it was stupid for you to hide in the closet instead of staying in bed. You had the perfect excuse.” 

Normally, Grif would have a quick retort, but after a couple of seconds of silence, he just whined crankily instead. Simmons snorted. 

“What?” Grif asked, annoyed, but leaning on Simmons shamelessly as they walked down the hall. Lazy. 

“Dexter makes that exact noise and that exact face when he has to get up from a nap.” 

Grif’s voice was thick with amusement when he answered. “You can’t interrupt a man’s sleep, Simmons!” 

“He’s on a _schedule,_ Grif. If I don’t wake him up, he won’t sleep at night.” 

Both of them shuddered, remembering the week last month when D thought it was time to play at 2:30AM on the dot. Every. Single. Night. 

Still, his slapping at his tired dads’ cheeks and little giggles were better than the past few days with how groggy the baby was. It actually _hurt_ to see him sick. And Simmons had a similar feeling now, seeing Grif like this. He was going to have to grind daily vitamins into his soda. 

“Come on, you gotta get in the shower,” Simmons insisted when they got back to their room. Grif was pouting, and he had trailed the blanket he’d been wearing like Jedi robes all down the hall. That wasn’t going back on the bed til it had been washed. Simmons was the only one who cleaned around here, so he knew how long it had been since the closets had seen a mop. 

Simmons tried to peel the blanket away, and Grif grumpily slapped at Simmons’ hands. “I can undress myself!” 

Simmons backed off with an embarrassed grin. “Coulda fooled me.” 

“Weak,” Grif said, throwing his shirt and pants out of the bathroom at Simmons. “There, I’m naked. Happy?” 

“Yup,” Simmons replied thoughtlessly, throwing the clothes with the blanket in the hamper and grabbing some fresh sweats and a t-shirt to toss back in at Grif as the shower started running. It was just like their usual routine, except a little easier since Simmons didn’t need to keep an eye and one hand on their son at the same time. 

Except without half of his attention on the baby, his full attention was trying not to be horrified about how domestic the routine was. 

Which was stupid. Because they were. They shared a _dresser_. 

Out of necessity. Because of the baby. 

After the baby shower, and the subsequent supplies the Chorusans sent them, Dexter had more stuff than Grif and Simmons combined already, and he was still smaller than a potato sack. It made _sense_ to give him Grif’s dresser and just share one with Simmons. Grif had been the one to be a little weird about that. _But where were they supposed to put all of Dexter’s stuff, Grif?_

Simmons had been sleepily putting on Grif’s shirts anyway, because sometimes their clothes were just mixed together, so what was the point in bothering to having their clothes in separate spots? 

To be honest, the bunk which briefly became Simmons’ after the baby, was now was more of a shelf for toys and baby stuff that had nowhere else to be too. 

It drove his organization mind a little crazy, but at least the stuffed animals were all lined up and out of the way, and they blocked the wreckage of the bouncy seat, bottle warmer, some other baby stuff Red Team had broken immediately, and the full train set Dexter was too young for. 

They really needed more storage space. Simmons had tried to put some stuff they didn’t use every day in the garage but Lopez had said something unintelligible and it had been in his bed the next day. 

And then with Dexter getting sick, Simmons hadn’t had the chance to even pretend his bed was not a convenient storage space. He changed the sheets on Grif's bunk and cleared his own bed for tonight. No need to collapse on Grif’s bed if they had the night off from parenting. 

The water turned off and there was some shuffling before Grif came out in his t-shirt and sweats, even more glassy-eyed from the hot water, but clean. 

Grif folded himself into the newly made bed gratefully and sighed. Simmons tried not to be too annoyed that it was already messed up. He got the bottle of Tylenol out of the bedside table that was mostly crammed with pacifiers and diaper ointment and random toys. 

“I could make soup,” Simmons offered uncertainly as Grif swallowed two pills with the old water they had by the bedside and went back to pushing his face into a pillow. Trying to get comfortable and definitely failing from the frustrated little huffs. 

That was _his_ pillow Grif was hugging and rubbing his face in, but it was hard to summon the usual annoyance when Grif looked so sick and uncomfortable. Simmons felt helpless all over again. Simmons had been handling Dexter just as much as Grif; he really dodged a bullet not getting the cold himself. 

Simmons grabbed the dirty glass and came back with two fresh waters and some saltines. He’d make soup later. When he got back to the room, Grif was looking drowsier, but he hadn’t passed out. He stirred when Simmons came in. “D?” 

Simmons had caught Sarge reading Dexter _The Art of War_ , complete with sidebars about how it applied to the greatest war of all time, _Red vs. Blue._ “Still fine.” 

Grif relaxed a little, closing his eyes. “You just gonna watch me sleep?” 

Grif was an adult and he would be better dealing with a cold than a baby—in theory—but Simmons still wanted to stay with him. Make sure he’d really be okay. For the safety of the human race, of course. 

Simmons shrugged. “No different from any other day, right? I’ll put on some Mystery Science Theater. Sarge has Dexter for the night. It’s like a break.” 

“You don’t take breaks,” Grif said suspiciously. 

“We have a nine month old, so I do now.” 

The corner of Grif’s mouth twitched, and then he frowned and switched positions again. Simmons awkwardly sat on the edge of the bed while he watched the first few minutes of the show. It wasn’t weird. He and Grif basically shared a room again, and more often than not _this bed._ Simmons would pass out with Grif and Dexter after a long day, and it wasn’t a big deal. Was there any difference without the baby there? No way. That would be stupid. 

Simmons tensed in his perched position. Grif rewarded him with one eye opening to check on him, the rest of his face wrinkled in the pillow. 

“Simmons.” 

Oh god, was Grif going to ask why Simmons was anxious? Cuz he didn’t even really _know_ why. 

“Sing for me?” Grif asked, slurred and mumbly, but shocking in the quiet. 

Simmons’ heart beat fast like he had been caught doing something wrong, and then the request registered. _“What?”_

“Well, it made D feel better.” If Grif were feeling like himself, it would sound defensive or biting or teasing. Instead, the unhappy and uncomfortable tone was back in his voice and it made Simmons want to do whatever he asked until he felt better again. 

He rolled closer to Simmons, until his face was pressed against Simmons outer thigh, almost like he was hiding. “You’re the best thing in his life, you know. You’re gonna take care of him, right? Don’t let me mess it up. I mess everything up…” He snuffled a little. 

“Shut up,” Simmons said quietly. “We’re both doing okay. He’s better now.” Simmons instinctively reached down and touched Grif’s head. When he didn’t move away, Simmons ran his fingers through his hair, thumb rubbing against his scalp in a gentle circular motion like he did when he was soothing the baby. 

They stayed like that, quietly, and Simmons relaxed as Grif stopped being restless too. Did Grif… really want him to sing? _Was he really thinking about doing it?_

“You can’t make fun of me later," Simmons said. 

Grif huffed, like he would never do such a thing. It was probably 50/50 that he would when he was up for it, but it didn’t matter. Grif’s cheek against his leg felt hotter than before. Hopefully only because the Tylenol was working on breaking the fever. 

Simmons’ defenses were rubble right now. He hummed a little, pausing his petting of Grif’s hair. Grif moved even closer, head half in Simmons’ lap. 

Simmons was sure he looked like the one with the fever now, but Grif wasn’t looking, so Simmons persevered and sang a barely remembered folk song softly as Grif’s breathing evened out. He continued running his fingers through Grif’s hair long after he’d fallen asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The Ancestor - Darlingside](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kg_EYc3SFuQ)


End file.
